


Thanksgiving in Baker Street – The First Anniversary Edition

by DonnesCafe



Series: Baker Street Thanksgivings [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Holidays, Love, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02 AU, Sherlock Cooking, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small update to "Thanksgiving in Baker Street." It's that time of year, so a look at the boys one year on. Can be read alone, but will make more sense if you've read part 1 of the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving in Baker Street – The First Anniversary Edition

“Why would anyone make a pie out of a large squash? It defies reason. Ow… bloody hell.” 

John should have foreseen this and had his medical kit in the kitchen. As soon as he saw Sherlock approach the pumpkin squatting ominously on the table with their largest, sharpest knife, he should have gone for the first-aid kit. 

“Let me see.” 

Sherlock thrust his hand out, still brandishing the knife with the other hand. “Why not apple? Mince? Bloody Americans.” 

“Not too bad," John said, cradling the bloody hand. He pulled Sherlock over to the sink and started the cold water. “Hold it under that until I can get the kit. And it doesn’t defy reason. America. First Thanksgiving. They were working with what they had. You’re the one who volunteered us to make the deserts. You could have used canned pumpkin.” 

Sherlock sniffed. “I would never insult Grand-mère Vernet’s pâte sucrée with canned anything. If it’s worth doing it’s worth doing well. Also, for your information, there was no pie made with _Cucurbita pepo_ in 1621 in Massachusetts at all. The pumpkin was indigenous to the region, but there was as yet no wheat flour. The settlers hadn’t even got round to constructing ovens. They brought sugar with them on the Mayflower, but it was probably gone by then. Culinary historians speculate that they probably hollowed out the cursed things and filled the shells with milk, honey and spices. They could have roasted them in pits filled with hot embers. It would make a sort of custard. I considered doing that instead of pie since it is actually more historically accurate. We could have roasted the thing in the fireplace.” 

John contemplated the disaster that might have been. That is, more of a disaster than it was shaping up to be already. 

“All this was in your mind palace?” 

“Google,” Sherlock said after a slight pause. “It’s still bleeding.” 

John sighed and went toward the loo to fetch antiseptic and bandages. He was beginning to regret their agreement with Mrs. Hudson after last year’s American Thanksgiving feast that this would be an annual event. But he had just been so damned grateful at the time. Sherlock back from the dead. He would have agreed to anything. 

He tenderly dried off Sherlock’s hand. Not deep enough for stitches. He affixed a butterfly bandage and applied tape over all. 

“So if there was no pie, why are you making pies?” 

“Because the Americans make pies on Thanksgiving. Because it will please Mrs. Hudson. Because one year ago today you shagged me senseless and told me you loved me. In that order. I’ll always be thankful for that.” 

“Ah,” said John. He pulled Sherlock’s head down and kissed him thoroughly. Sherlock cradled the back of his head with his newly-bandaged hand, tongue probing. Then he drew back. 

“Back to bed. Now," John said. They had time, surely. Mrs. Hudson had decreed dinner at 14:30. Mycroft was bringing the turkey this year. Anthea was bringing an American lover she had discovered on a trip to Atlanta, and said lover was bringing home-made pickled peaches from his mother’s kitchen. 

“We can’t, John. Luckily I made the pâte sucrée two weeks ago. It’s thawed and in the fridge.” He waved his bandaged hand in John’s face. “But you’ll have to roll it out and fill the tart dish. And we haven’t even started on the pecan pie yet. That requires a different kind of pastry.” 

“I’m guessing there weren’t pecans in Massachusetts either?” 

“Likely not. But it is part of the tradition in the American South.” 

“I can’t make pies,” John said. “This is going to be a disaster.” 

“It’s just technique and chemistry. I’ll talk you through it.” 

“Do we even have a rolling pin?” 

“You can use a wine bottle.” 

“Ok,” John said. “As long as you remember that there’s another Thanksgiving tradition that we’re going to observe annually here in Baker Street.” 

“Shagging?” Sherlock sounded hopeful. 

“Got it in one. Lots of shagging. Every year, by god.” 

“The Pilgrims might not approve of all the sex.” Sherlock was actually grinning. God, John loved that smile. Loved that Sherlock was back. Loved his life. Yeah, he was bloody thankful. 

“Sod the Pilgrims,” he said and reached for one of the aprons they had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson. “Besides, you’ve mixed up the Pilgrims with the Puritans. Do your research. The Pilgrims were red-blooded Englishmen. If William Bradford were here now and got a look at you, he’d want to shag you himself.” 

Sherlock laughed and went to the cabinet to get the bag of pecans.


End file.
